The Devil's Messenger
by Kinsie
Summary: The trials in Salem have left marks upon everyone, from the the fresh graves to the souls of those left behind. When Judge Danforth goes home to his wife, she wonders if he will ever heal from the marks he has. Rated T for references to prostitution and death.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything but the plot and the fantastic Arthur Miller gets all the credit for The Crucible and its characters, well except for Clara, she's mine.

**Author's Note:** This is the only thing I've ever written for The Crucible, please let me know what you think!

A whimpering sound could be heard throughout the sad home. Clara could hear it from down the hall, but she dared not enter her husband's room. He would only tell her to leave, or ignore her presence entirely. The day he left for Salem, she had lost him. Her husband had returned from the trials as a shade, a wisp of his former conviction remained. His form had once commanded the attention of everyone nearby, now it hung limp, his eyes clouded by guilt and pain. It seemed to her that he had lost his very soul in that God forsaken place. Every night, the terrors plagued him, chasing him through his conscience with no hope of peace. Clara could hear the pain in his voice when he called out in his sleep and her heart went out to him. He begged for mercy and forgiveness, though from whom, he never said. The first night he had shared their bedroom, but after the nightmares began, he converted his office into a second bedroom, quarantining himself from her presence.

Each morning, Clara knew better than to ask about the dreams, it would only serve to open the wounds further and create more distance between them. She loved her husband, but these days she felt more like a widow than a woman about to celebrate her fortieth anniversary. In public, she did her best to act the part of the dutiful ministry wife, but each time a passerby said, "Good morning Goody Danforth," she had to hide the twinge of pain that blossomed over her heart. Her husband could barely stand to look at her, what right did she have to his name?

That particular morning, her husband had decided to stay in bed for several more hours than he would ever have approved of before his trip. Clara had to go the market, so she set a bowl of porridge aside for Thomas to eat once he escaped the confines of his room. She wrapped herself in a shawl and took up her basket before leaving the house. It was winter yet in Massachusetts and she wrapped the gray cloth more closely around herself, thankful that they did not live on one of the outlying farms. Her husband's position as a judge had secured them a small home in the town center. Since he had been ushered from town to town overseeing witchcraft cases, she had taken to selling goods such as hand woven baskets and fresh produce in the market. Today, she brought two baskets to barter for a sack of winter turnips.

With Thomas staying home, Clara worked for them both, unwilling to admit any kind of weakness to their neighbors. They may live in a pious town, but it was in a person's very soul to scavenge any kind of advantage they could get. She had once listened to a preacher talk of how all souls were damned until deemed worthy by the Lord. It was a common sermon those days, but struck her as wrong. The sound of the words fell on her ears as though they were in the wrong key. But she knew not to bother speaking her words to others, for it would only ostracize her from the community, putting both her reputation and her husband's in harm's way.

Thomas Danforth left the house in the evening with the sole intention of ridding himself of the terrors that followed him, that clung to his footsteps as a shadow. Only this shadow held the wails and protests of the dying. He flinched as he heard one voice spoken out above the din, "More weight," was spoken in a tone that was different from the rest. It was steadfast and calm, even in the face of death the man had done God's bidding, where Thomas himself had failed. He had damned the souls of the righteous and knew he would pay for his sins, just as every man must; he only hoped to save his wife from his fate.

He had chosen to walk to the seedy tavern, rather than take the horse, where it would be taken before he walked through the front door. Boston was turning into a place that was unrecognizable to him, but it served his purposes for it to do so.

The smoky air spun around him as he entered the pub. It was not a normal meeting house, but rather a place for people to play away their sorrows and drink their pain into peaceful oblivion. The clinking of glasses and erratic tapping of dice hitting the tabletops kept pace with the murmur of voices. Soon after Danforth sat down at the bar, a drunken man began belting out the lyrics to a lewd city tune. Thomas ignored the drunk and ordered his regular liquor, hoping to be lulled into the numbness that kept him safe from the shadow lurking behind him. The alcohol blurred the voices and eased the pain of memories. The sight of men being held back while their wives and daughters swung in the air, death's cruel rope binding their throats was shown to him each night, but he had learned that numbness eased the dreams.

After his third round, Danforth's mind was starting to feel fuzzy; he had discovered that the longer you take up the practice, the more resistance your body holds against the effects of the fermented brew. He looked up when a hand brushed his shoulder and thought he recognized the young woman attached to the pale appendage. Her clothing was not out of place in the dodgy place, but it was not her attire that intrigued him; it was her face. When he first turned, she had an open smile, comfortable even though she did not know him, but it changed as though she knew him. A sly grin stole across her face and she said his name in a cold, calculated way.

"Now what would you be doing here Thomas?" her voice was soft, just loud enough to be heard over the din. He knew her face, though it was not one that swung in the breezes of Salem. She had stood front and center, with a cruel smile hidden under a mask of terror. Abigail Williams was a girl he had learned was not to be trifled with. She had a resolve tougher than oak, but a heart blackened with sin. Danforth had come to know her quite well through the court cases and now knew her to be the devil's mistress herself.

"Abigail, stay away or you will pay the consequences," He warned her, shoving her arm away roughly.

"Whatever you wish Mr. Danforth, but if you are willing to pay your own price, my services could be yours for the night. Or is your little wife waiting for you, clinging to what is left of you like a mouse to the crumbs left under the table? What would your Clara say if she saw you now, shriveling like a corpse in the depths of winter. You are no better than those sniveling hypocrites back in Salem," Abigail responded with a knowing voice and cold eyes. Her words hit him like crashing wave. The icy words shook him from the numbness he had achieved and angered him. He was not so far gone as to hide from his wife, to leave her alone in the world. Danforth was so angry that his hand whipped out at her, leaving the red imprints of fingers splayed across her face. A small gasp of surprise left her sharp mouth, but it closed in a smirk which only angered him further.

"Thomas, go home to your wife, where you belong. Go home to your warm, safe house and your sheltered little life. You have seen too much of this world to waste away what time you have left. Find your redemption as my John did and you will have paid your price," Abigail's voice had softened. She knew what plagued the poor old man, for it was the same that afflicted her. But the past was the past and there was nothing she could do to change it.

"And what of your price Abigail?" he asked, her words having affected him more than he wished to admit. The only thing left to him now was Clara and he could not afford to lose her.

"It is too high for me to pay, I deserve my fate and plan to serve out my fiery sentence in eternity," Abigail's voice held the same strength as that of Giles Corey when he refused to give in to the injustice of his 'trial'.

"Find your way child, and you may yet be saved," Danforth said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder as he stood from his barstool. He was going home at last. To try and keep the fire that was his marriage going, even though the harsh winter spun snowflakes around his soul.


End file.
